I'm just thinking about my trip to Japan in April, 2004. I'm trying to decide where to begin, because every bite of every meal was adorned with excitement. Even moments away from the sushi bars were exciting. For example, I tasted the very finest green tea called gyokuro and some pretty incredible sweet red bean treats- both under one roof, in a place called Toraya.

This 'got me to thinkin', I'd best be coming up with some cakes inspired by my culinary adventures. So- how about green tea cheesecake and sweet red bean cheesecake. Whew, that was tough. Now, back to more raw fish tales.

My main training has been in French cuisine, and I'm crazy about French food. I love French food. I mean, I really love French food. But, after I eat sashimi, I feel great. After a big French meal, I feel terrible. I remember my first meal at Troisgros, a Michelin 3-star restaurant in Roanne, France. Halfway through the 'tasting menu' (they had to be kidding: each course was like a main course), I called over one of the Troisgros brothers and told him I couldn't continue. "Here", he said, "have one of these". It was a beer. And I felt better, and I ate more. In fact, I breezed through the rest of the meal, cheese course, and about 20 desserts. That night, I thought my backed-up intestines would explode. This has never happened after a sashimi dinner, even a large one.

So, I arrive at Tokyo airport after a 14 hour flight, and my friend (who owns 6 Kyushu-style fish restaurants in Tokyo and Kyushu, and who is a food fanatic like me) takes me out to a friend's restaurant (a combination of French, Japanese, and Chinese cuisine in a traditional Japanese setting). After we finish a beautifully paced meal with tiny portions just enough for 2 bites (it was so good!), we go to his restaurant for raw fish.

Don't get me wrong: that combo meal was sensational; but what could beat a huge, handmade and hand-painted traditional Kyushu ceramic platter loaded with raw fish flown in from the Kyushu Islands that afternoon. I shouldn't say 'loaded'. What I meant to say was that the fish was so beautifully arranged that I couldn't make the first move. My friend is an artist, and his arrangements leave me gasping for air. By the way, I worked in his restaurant for 3 months in the 1970's, during my decade of roaming the earth.

One native fish that always makes an appearance on my friend's sashimi platters is the kibi nago. I love this fish because it looks so good. It's as long as my fifth finger, it comes with its tail intact, it shimmers in blue and silver, and it is always served folded over itself in groups of 10 or 15, all lined up like kibi nago soldiers. Almost as spectacular is the mackerel, served raw and very fresh. (In the U.S., it is usually somewhat less than fresh and it has been marinated, for that very reason.) Very fresh mackerel is a revelation, especially with a little bit of grated ginger added to the soy sauce. But what I really love about my friend's mackerel is the way he cuts it. Each slice contains the fish's dark blue and sliver colors.

So, to recap, the fish is so fresh that it resists your molars and it sparkles and shines and dazzles you with its colors. Moreover, the arrangements swirl and flow, have highs and lows, and are basically as hard to convey the artistry as is any work of art.

And then I walked around and did this and that. And then I went to Tsukiji, Tokyo's fish market. Actually, I took a room at one of the fish stalls and lived there for a few days, or maybe I just imagined that I did.

The photo (left) shows Tsukiji market so that you can get a feel for the atmosphere.





The photo (right) is a fish photo (like the other 50 that followed), specifically uni (sea urchin). Uni, like heroin, is addictive. What the hard core addicts do is end a meal with uni- nothing goes into the mouth after the last bite of uni, not pickled ginger or tea or water, in other words, nothing- and they enjoy a kind of uni high (which is really just the complex flavor) for 20-40 minutes, depending on the quality of the uni. Instead of trying to describe the flavor, let me say that the flavor of a 50 year old (or older) Chateau d'Yquem Sauterne has an equally complex flavor.

You know, it really is worth it to spend a little more time discussing uni. It's right up there with fresh chilled foie gras, the aforementioned Sauterne, and black truffles. It tastes like the sea, but that is only one dimension. Its color, anywhere between pale yellow and bright orange; its appearance, like an array of pinpoint-sized eggs; its texture like cream held together in the sheerest of membranes; and that indescribable flavor that is at once so fresh and slightly fermented, so complex that you feel your brain pulsing in different regions, back and forth, trying to process everything. Just try it if you haven't.

This photo (left) shows the sushi master at Sushisay in the Tsukiji market cutting toro (fatty tuna- another wonder of the world). This place is famous and cheap (and really good), so you find some Westerners here. The fish is near perfect. The toro is so oily (I mean this in a good way) that the oil dribbles out of my mouth, down my shirt and pants, onto my shoes, soaks through the leather, and engulfs my toes. When I walk, I hear a squishing sound. This is how oily the toro is, and I'm not exaggerating.

I also had fugu (blowfish) which my friend's son transported from Kyushu. Bless him. The first time I had it, I was sure my throat was closing up and that I was about to die. This time, I had a more positive attitude and ate it with a degree of calm. It's not my favorite fish although a lot of people rave about it. Next time, I'll travel to Kyushu or wherever fugu is caught, go to the most famous fugu restaurant in town, and hang out with the chef. These guys are all food fanatics, and they love fellow fanatics. They tend to pull out all their best stuff for a comrade-in-arms.

I also ate sukiyaki, yaki-tori, cold soba noodles, udon, and pastries; but I saved the majority of my stomach's capacity for raw fish.